Due to Trying Economic Times...

Please don’t expect the usual today. I am venting a bit.

I knew it was coming. I started my new job in August; the banks started begging for government money in September. My company made the first round of layoffs in November. I kept quiet, did my work, tried not to cause any problems or be a bitch to anyone, and attempted to look busy even though I really wasn’t. That worked through two more rounds of layoffs, my friend from the marketing department even getting cut two weeks ago. Then Monday morning my boss sent me a meeting invite with no subject. Just me and her. I knew it was going to happen before it actually happened, but for some reason there was a relative calm involved. At least on my part; my boss looked like a wreck. I went back to my desk and turned on my computer. The headline on CNN read “68,000 Jobs Cut Today in North America” I am suddenly not alone.

It was a good job, albeit short-lived. The pay was great, I never felt stressed out, and I left at four everyday with everything in my inbox completed. While writing about electronic components (motherboards, AC/DC converters, accelerometers, microchips of various shapes and sizes) was new to me, I never once found it all that interesting, and creativity in a company comprised of almost solely engineers is seemingly frowned upon. I never felt passion about working there, but I did feel stability.

I write this from my favorite neighborhood bar. Mike and I frequent this place because of the great burgers, nice staff, and the proximity to our house (stumbling distance for sure). I have never really been in here in the light of day, though. There are three older gentlemen to my left talking animatedly about past drinking encounters and establishments. Another man sits to my right in silence, sipping a Budweiser and staring at ESPN, still donning his knit hat with Elmer-Fudd style earflaps. There is one guy in the far corner at a table sitting in front of his own laptop. I imagine that he is working on his resume, which is what I should be doing. The Beatles sing Blackbird out of the speakers. I am so not ready to be out of work again.

I am trying to have a good attitude. Having been laid off before, I have learned that being positive is important. So here are the positives as it stands right now:

I am going skiing tomorrow with my also-laid-off marketing friend.
My hair looks awesome because I dropped $200 on it last weekend before I knew what was coming.
They say the economy should hit bottom and head back up any time now.
I have a few writing projects that could potentially use a dusting off so that they can become more than just projects.
I get a paycheck and health benefits through the end of March.
My dog is very happy about the situation. He knows the drill: more walks, more tennis ball throwing, more rides in the car.
I have some freelance work basically lined up already.
Umm.. I write this from my favorite neighborhood bar.

The last time I got laid off, the company I was working for eliminated their entire marketing department so I had many friends in the same situation. We were in our early to mid-twenties, and they made the mistake of giving us six month’s salary in one check. We did what any other intelligent, unemployed young people would do: we took our giant checks and went to Vegas. I am older and wiser now. With that comes being scared shitless even though I don’t have to be. Mike does well in the recession-proof beer industry, which actually tends to thrive in times like these when people need a cheap way to forget about their troubles. I am not above letting him handle things until I find something. I feel above it, but I’m pretty sure I’m actually not. Life has a funny way of always working out; I know this. Even the shittiest things have a way of teaching lessons and all of that other crap that supposedly makes you a better person.

This could be a chance in disguise, the kick in the ass I needed, or a break with a reason. I know these things. And I know that I shouldn’t be whining right now because there are 67,999 other people who are going through the same thing I am this week, (and apparently millions more since September) and I’m sure many of them don’t have a beer-magnate sugar daddy to save them. Still the visions of buying our cute little Craftsman bungalow and having an awesome wedding are suddenly slipping down the drain, and I am feeling a little pissed off about it. Wasn’t Barack Obama supposed to put on a red cape and come save everyone?

I am going to give our President a few weeks. And I am going to give myself a little time to figure this all out. And I am going to be productive with this time that I have been given. I can catch up on the laundry and be a mooch and write the great American novel at the same time. Stay tuned.

The Real Housewives of Denver County

I quit my job last week. Initially, I did this to take another job, but after a long discussion with Mike and some serious soul-searching, I turned the other company down. It didn’t feel right, and I am in a position right now to take some time to build on my freelance writing career. I will also be going back to school in the Fall. So, I am suddenly spending a lot of time in my house.

Normally, our house is empty all day. Blue and Fletch (dog and cat respectively) typically rule the roost while Mike and I are at work. When we are home on the weekends, we usually sleep late, and then take the dog hiking, and hang out with friends, and do all the other weekend things that keep us from noticing anything odd.

However, for the past week or so I have been getting up early, making coffee, and then working quietly at the computer in the living room for the better part of the day. What I have noticed is that there is some pretty weird shit that goes down around here while no one is watching.

Monday morning, I was sitting at the computer researching some freelance jobs when I heard two people having sex through the window right next to my desk. They were both engaging in a rhythmic moan reminiscent of bad porn. Immediately, I got up to look out the window, but as soon as I pulled back the curtains the moaning stopped. I started freaking out a little thinking that maybe they were watching me through the window and having sex at the same time. Yuck. I knew I was not that much of a turn-on in my thick glasses, dirty ponytail, and men’s pajamas, so I imagined that these were fetish people who get off on the unshowered, homely look. As I was thinking about this, I also realized that the noise was coming from the house next door which has been a vacant remodeling project for the entire year and half we have been living here. Were the construction people getting it on in the empty house? I do not need to know these things.

I went back to working on the computer and was at it for about ten minutes when the moaning started again. Seriously, people! It is 7:30 in the morning. Have you no shame?!?

I quietly opened the front door and crept out on to the porch. The moaning, seemingly coming from the upstairs window of the vacant house, continued right up until I let the storm door slip out of my hand and close with a bang. The sound stopped abruptly, and that is when I saw them. Two birds sitting on the upstairs windowsill of the house next door. Mourning doves. Their feathers were all puffed out, and they looked completely guilty. I was the only witness to their Bambi-style twitterpation, and they were angry that I had the nerve to interrupt them. I’m sure they weren’t doing anything wrong, but still, how can birds sound like that? I thought they were supposed to sound like they were mourning, not doing it! I felt so dirty. I can’t believe people keep those things as pets.

On Tuesday, I took Blue to the dog park in the morning for an hour or so, and when I got back my neighbor from across the street was outside working in her yard so we chatted for awhile in front of her house. After a few minutes, my tired dog fell asleep in the grass, waiting patiently for me to take him inside and feed him. The mailman came walking up the street, but stopped short when he saw Blue. “Is he under control?” he asked, slowly backing away.

I kind of laughed a little and looked down at my lazy dog who had barely lifted his head. “Uh, yeah,” I said with trace amounts of sarcasm, “he seems to be pretty under control”

The mailman gave me a dirty look and walked up our steps to deposit the mail through the slot in the front door, then wandered down the street to the next house. I laughed with my neighbor, “How cliche’, a mailman afraid of dogs.”

Today, whilst sitting at the computer again, I heard the mailman begin his ascent to the front porch. Blue immediately jumped up on the couch by the window and began barking in the most ferocious manner I have ever heard any dog bark. This is the same dog whom I let my niece and nephew climb all over, the same dog who licks babies, and snuggles up to sleep with my cat. He was barking bloody murder. He was dead serious. He was scaring the crap out of me and probably anyone else within a two-mile radius. Then, as the mailman lifted the little trapdoor to the mail slot, Blue sprung from the sofa, and jumped up to rip the mail out of his hand. I was sitting there at the desk staring at this completely aghast, speechless. The storm door closed. After shaking it back and forth in his jaws a few times, Blue dropped my Glamour magazine on the floor, and then he climbed back on the couch and was asleep within seconds. His work for the day was done. I went back to work, but not before writing myself a reminder to leave the mailman a hefty tip this Christmas.

There is a man who lives on the corner of my block who has a Chow Chow named Killer. I know this because when I was running out to my car to get my gym bag, he was walking up the street with his mangy-looking dog, and he said “Come on, Killer” and sped up.

Suddenly, I realized that the entire block smelled like a Snoop Dogg concert.

Sure enough, I looked at Killer’s master one more time only to see him smoking a joint in broad daylight. I’m sure it was for medicinal purposes only.

In addition to the strange goings on at home, I have been learning a lot about the things that happen out in the world while everyone else is at the office. Did you know that Home Depot opens at six AM? I took Mike to the airport early one morning only to drive by and see Home Depot packed. I was floored and decided that it was a perfect opportunity to buy some flowers for the yard. You would have thought I was invading some special club. There were no women in sight, and the place was full of contractors and construction workers (not that there aren’t females in this profession, there just weren’t any this time) making large lumber purchases, or buying six toilets at once. They were all kind of giving me a look that said I wasn’t allowed in there until later, when I wouldn’t be in their way. These guys have Home Depot all to themselves every weekday morning, and they didn’t want some civilian lady messing it all up, telling all the other soccer moms that they can go to Home Depot whenever they want to buy their flowers and gardening tools. Who knew?

I was in and out of my normally-packed grocery store in about four minutes flat on Wednesday at 2:30. There was not a soul in there except for a couple of old ladies at the pharmacy.

Post office? Empty.

Dry Cleaners? No line.

PetsMart? Blue and I had it all to ourselves.

I had no idea what I’d been missing out on working the nine-to-five grind shift all these years. In the wise words of Disney’s critically-acclaimed Aladdin, there is truly a whole new world out there. I can’t wait to pick the next place to go.

I can see Mike reading this right now thinking: You’d better be drumming up some more work here, woman. I’m not your sugar-daddy.

I’m on it, honey. I’m on it. As soon as I get back from the mall.

Monday

If the phone rings again, I’m going to throw it out my office window. I press my nose against the glass and picture my multi-line phone tumbling down onto the icy downtown Denver streets, crushed instantly by the environmentally irresponsible drivers of Hummvees and Cadillac Escalades. The mental picture makes me happy temporarily, and I slump back down in my chair. The chair, as always, squeaks loudly under my weight, and I remember for the fourteenth day in a row that I meant to bring in the WD-40 from my toolbox. I am completely unorganized. What am I doing here? Where am I going with my life? These are the two questions that I ask every morning, and then ponder for about an hour before I decide to begin any actual work. I rest my forehead on the edge of my desk staring past my lap to the cheap carpet below. My shoe is starting to split from the sole near my left big toe. As I start to raise my head I notice a small stain of unknown origins on my pants, this near my left knee. I scratch at it with a bitten nail and think that possibly, not counting my entire left leg, I look fairly put together, for a Monday.My boss comes strolling into my office seeming to have been here for hours. He has that 'settled-in' look. Stale coffee breath. An already loosened tie. I glance sideways at the clock (9:45) and half-wonder if he is there to discuss the fact that I have been in the building for all of twenty minutes, a twenty minutes that has been spent in the following productive manner: listening to the phone ring five times in a row without answering, pressing my nose against my dirty window, and resting my head on the desk, contemplating my direction in life.He stares at me in a strange way, and my mind starts to race, searching for excuses for being late. 'Deciding to floss for the first time in a week' doesn't seem to sound important enough, although it is the truth. Of course, the flossing led to other neglected hygiene rituals, and before I knew it, I was arriving at the office well after nine, albeit with very clean teeth, a perfectly bleached mustache, and impeccably plucked eyebrows.He, my boss, 'the man', sets a file on my desk, and then, with genuine concern, asks, "What's wrong?"I am confused, and he sees this so he expands on his extremely general question, one with several possible answers.
"With your forehead, I mean?"I touch my head and feel the line made by the edge of my desk. I assume that, just for good measure, it is also bright red. I don't say anything, and he smiles to himself and then leaves. He didn't even notice my eyebrows.